


Seattle by Night

by LoathsomeSinner, Sparrowhawke (LoathsomeSinner)



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Abandonment, Bad Flirting, Betrayal, Blood Bond, Blood is not good lubrication, Blow Jobs, Death Threats, Drama & Romance, Dubious Consent, Dysphoria, FTM, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hinted at necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Transphobia, Multi, Murder, Nightmares, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Praise, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Safewords, Strangulation, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampires, Violence, knife fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2019-09-29 20:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17210213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoathsomeSinner/pseuds/LoathsomeSinner, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoathsomeSinner/pseuds/Sparrowhawke
Summary: A little note before we begin. All of these stories were written as downtime/flashback posts from a roleplay I was in for a few years on Elliquiy. The game was set in Seattle during the early months of 2000, though many of the flashback posts predate that. Forgive any anachronisms or inaccuracies, as I am not familiar with Seattle (and America itself), especially not Seattle nearly 20 years ago. The stories themselves may also be a bit confusing without the full context of the game, apologies.I will be updating the tags for this work as they come up in each of the stories, and all posts are in the order that I wrote them, rather than in any order based on in-character time or by character. They will all have the in-character dates in the summary, however, along with the names of any characters that show up in each. There will also be more specific tags there, so please read them before you start!





	1. Seeing Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This story is fairly SFW, but there are some flashbacks about a fire caused by a drug lab, and references towards the creation of narcotics.
> 
> Characters involved are Faust (mine) and Athari 'Gladstone' Gorth, who belongs to EffingEden.
> 
> Date/Time: June 1999, Seattle

Faust was already having his doubts as he was led towards Athari’s haven. Hell, he’d been having doubts long before that. Usually he was hired by people just looking for a little extra muscle, and he’d _thought_ that would be the case with this job as well. But then he’d moved his head, let the Toreador see the other half of his face and instead of disgust he’d seen fascination. He’d seen the way Toreador’s looked at things they thought were beautiful before. He’d never expected one to look at _him_ that way.

So he’d been thrown off, right off the bat. _No one_ had ever looked at his scars like that, as if they were a _good_ thing. The best he was used to was pity or just an attempt to ignore them. This was something new and not entirely comfortable.

But he’d agreed to the job, and now he was following the man to his haven. In Fremont, of all places. He supposed it made sense, this seemed like the place for Toreadors, but he knew he would stick out like a sore thumb here. Though at least _his_ face couldn’t be considered a masquerade breach, unlike the Nosferatu.

He was led into a cellar, surprised to find it quite a comfortable size. With a second floor, he noted as he caught a glimpse of stairs. He took a few moments to look around, still holding his bag (which had very little in it, he’d found he really didn’t need much these nights), before looking back to Athari.

“Where will I be sleeping?” His voice and posture were still stiff, unsure of himself and how to deal with this strange other vampire.

“Well, unless you have changed your mind about sleeping with me, take your pick, wherever you want.” Faust managed to avoid making a face at the suggestion, turning to look around again, though glanced back as Gladstone continued to speak. “I have something I need to do.” Of _course_ the Toreador’s eyes lingered on him when he said that. “Come let me know when you’ve chosen.”

And with that he moved gracefully off to the stairs, disappearing down them and thankfully leaving Faust with some room to think. He deliberated for a few moments before going and trying a door. To his luck, it led to a small room, more than enough for his needs. And once he was absolutely sure the room didn’t belong to Athari himself (he wouldn’t put it past him to let him chose only to find Athari in it later), he claimed it as his own.

He dumped his bag on the bed, then after a moment decided to toss his coat there as well. He wouldn’t need it here, surely, and the spines that were raising the back of his shirt… Shouldn’t be a problem. He grimaced a little, debating putting the coat back on, but decided to leave it. With a sigh he turned to leave the room, then headed downstairs. 

As soon as what was down there came into sight Faust stopped, his hand gripping the banister tightly enough to damage the wood. His eyes were locked on the equipment that he recognised so well. It might be a different drug, he wouldn’t know, but the equipment still looked largely the same.

He couldn’t stop the fear from showing in his expression, or his posture. It was all he could do to try and fight the memories as they came to mind. The sound of the explosion, screaming, glass shattering. The heat, the light, the flames, even harder to deal with now that the beast inside of them feared them as much as he did. On top of all of it, the abject terror he’d felt as a child, woken from sleep into the middle of it, no one caring enough to help him find his way out, only caring about their own skins.

It was only an immense amount of willpower that stopped him from turning tail and running. Stopped him from giving in to the beast. But he was too shaken, and too obviously shaken to recover before Athari noticed.

Athari was turning, already speaking, no doubt he’d heard his footsteps. “Just let me fi-” He cut off the moment their eyes met, and Faust knew he’d not been able to keep the fear off his face. “Holy shit, nevermind. Sit down, you look like you’re about to explode.” 

Athari quickly moved to stop whatever he was doing, Faust didn’t understand the science. He’d not been taught as a child, only told to stay away from the equipment, and he’d definitely not had any interest when he was older. Then he was moving closer, and Faust managed to stop himself from recoiling just barely.

The touch on his wrist was a relief, however, giving him something else to think about, something else to focus on.

“Don’t worry, it’s not magic. Well. It sort of is because it’s _science_ and science is fucking magic. Did you know you can do so much with just some heat and squiggly tubes-” Athari managed to cut himself off from his excited babble, obviously noticing it wasn’t helping.

Faust glanced back at the equipment, the memories still there but not as strong as that moment when the unexpected sight had slapped him in the face. “Yeah, I know. I’m a little too familiar with it.” He didn’t notice that his hand had moved, unconsciously touching at the scars on his face.

Thankfully, it seemed Athari was quick enough to catch on to what he meant, and he didn’t need to explain any further. The Toreador’s face turned into a frown, but what came out of his mouth next was the opposite of what Faust expected.

“….I can move it, you know, it’s not a big problem.”

Faust couldn’t keep the surprise from showing in his face. The idea that he would move all this, take it out of his own haven and to somewhere less convenient just for someone he’d only just met that night? It helped to shake the last grip of the terror from his heart, and he let out his breath in a deep sigh.

“No… Thank you, but… It’s fine. Just don’t…” He paused for a moment, unable to help his eyes drifting towards the equipment again. “Just don’t let that one explode, alright?”

Athari snorted, as if the idea was unthinkable, and Faust wasn’t entirely sure if he was reassured or more concerned by it. But that hand was still at his wrist, pulling him away from the source of his distress and back upstairs.

And he let him.


	2. Desensitization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another SFW story, a flashback to Italy in 1901, around when Julian (known as 'Giuliano' in this story), my Malkavian Scourge, was sired. 
> 
> The characters involved are Julian (Giuliano) Antoni and Claudio. Both of them belong to me.

"....Really, Giuliano, nothing?"

Giuliano stared blankly at his sire, who was pouting in return. The older Malkavian had just poked him, quite literally, in the eye. It hurt, but somehow he felt that wasn't the reaction his sire was trying to get. 

"...Do you need something?"

This level, disinterested question drew a noise of frustration from his sire, but he only blinked as a book went flying past his head and into the wall behind him. 

" _Yes_ , I need something!" The Malkavian yelled, and another book quickly followed the first, missing him with just as wide of a margin as the first. "What _happened_ to you, you were so much fun!" He swore, a string of inventive curses each stranger than the last. "You were supposed to get more fun, Giuliano, that's how it _works_. Now you're just... This."

The man gestured, then let his hands fall to his side. Giuliano's face still hadn't changed, only showing a vague puzzlement at the whole situation. He could remember what he was like before the embrace but... He couldn't understand it anymore. Couldn't understand why his sire was so worked up. Everything just felt numb. He closed his eyes and sighed.

When he opened them his sire's angry face was right in front of him.

"Fine, Giuliano, if you won't do it yourself I'll make you." The vampire lifted his arm up to Giuliano's face, forcing his wrist into his mouth. "Drink."

He could have fought, could have refused to do it, it would have been quite the struggle. But what was the point in doing so? He didn't care, quite simply, if this creature had that control over him again. So he bit, he _drank_.

Maybe this time he would feel something.


	3. Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian sees things from someone else's perspective. He is slightly perturbed by this event.
> 
> This story takes place some time after Federico, a runaway Giovanni, was placed under Julian's 'care.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters involved are Julian Antoni (mine) and Federico, a Giovanni who belongs to EffingEden.
> 
> Content involves unwilling restraint and a slight reference towards necrophiliac inclinations.
> 
> Date/Time: February 7th, 2000 - 3am

It might surprise some, but Julian was as subject to the madness in his blood as any other Malkavian. Such moments were more rare, and far more subtle than the explosions that were present in others of his ilk, but they certainly still happened. None new this better than Federico. Over the last month the unfortunate Giovanni had borne the brunt of his eccentricities. Tonight, it seemed, was another of these nights. There were no voices in Julian's head, no dark whisperings, just an overwhelming compulsion.

Luckily for Federico, that compulsion was harmless. The need to stare at him, to stare _into_ him, perhaps. Unluckily, Julian did not trust him to hold still long enough, not by a long shot. There had been a brief struggle as Julian had tied him up, using whatever was on hand to tie him up on the couch. The restraints were always far from comfortable, after all, he didn't need to worry about cutting off blood flow to his victim's hands and feet. Usually, the struggle might have raised some interest in him, the physical fight, the fear, both things he found far too fascinating. But tonight there was nothing, his focus was taken by that compulsion, that push to _see_ and what Malkavian on earth could deny that?

Julian turned away from him only a moment to go to the stereo, finding the first song that seemed comfortable and putting it on repeat. Then he moved to another seat, all but sprawling into it and settling his eyes on Federico. From then he let his curse-gift-madness take over him, and ceased to move at all. There was no need to breathe, to blink, so he didn't. His eyes quickly lost any hint of focus, making him look for all the world as if he had just died where he sat.

Despite the seeming urgency of his sudden compulsion, nothing really happened for a good while. Nonetheless, he still didn't move. He didn't respond in any way to any of Federico's words, nor his weak attempts at getting free. That wasn't important. He had to _see_ something, and he wasn't going to move for anything else unless it was an emergency. Even the music seemed to have no effect on him. It had to be at least an hour before he began to feel something, a strange feeling that was almost like his own consciousness slipping away, moving instead to the one he was viewing. He still didn't move, not wanting to waste the moment even though it was disconcerting to say the least. 

The rest came suddenly, compared to the wait that had come before. And suddenly he saw himself, though it was far from the experience of doing so in a mirror. No, instead he saw himself, and the room around him, through the eyes of his captive. It was a brief moment, but it told him more than enough, more than he'd expected. Though the glimpse was only brief, it seemed to contain _more_ than he thought possible. The world, for a few moments, was bright and vibrant and so much _there_. 

And god, was that what it was like to feel? It had been so long.

He saw himself, a still counterpoint to the chaos surrounding them. Nothing else was moving, surely, but it felt like the world was suddenly moving too fast. He himself was the only still thing, looking dead and static, eyes empty like those of a corpse. And somehow he was beautiful. To Federico. More than that perhaps.

Julian blinked and the moment was gone, he was back in himself and that _feeling_ was gone. His face twisted for a moment, showing an emotion that _should_ have been there but in reality felt even duller after what he'd just been through. He stood, only a slight hesitation as he reminded himself that _this_ was his body - empty husk as it may be. He reached for Federico, still ignoring any protest or fight, began to undo the binds that held him in place. 

"You really are disgusting."


	4. Scratching an Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shedding Gangrel gets some relief.
> 
> September 1999, Seattle - Characters involved are Athari 'Gladstone' Gorth (EffingEden's) and Faust (Mine).

Faust would have thought, what with him being _undead_ and all, that he wouldn’t be capable of shedding. He didn’t need to breathe, after all, didn’t need to fucking _blink_. But no, the spikes on his back just _had_ to act like they were attached to a living creature. And they _itched_ , like hell. He knew from experience that he wouldn’t really be able to reach them or do anything about it. And it would take a few nights.

He’d already suffered through it for one night, he’d managed to coax one of them into coming off, but the others were stubborn. And on that part of his back that was so difficult to reach, too. He couldn’t even reach to scratch the worst of it, every time he tried it evaded him. 

As a result, he was significantly more moody than usual. To be fair, that didn’t really look like much, given that his facial expression was barely any different, just a hint of annoyance in his otherwise passive expression. He didn’t want attention called to it, so he’d just dressed and followed Athari like usual.

Unfortunately for him, Athari was far too perceptive when it came to his bodyguard. Faust had hoped, as they went about their business, that the glances were only the usual. It still confused him that his employer would be so interested in his appearance (and _him_ , as well).

But as they returned to Athari’s haven, the man turned to him with an exaggerated pout, ruining Faust’s hope that he might have gotten away unnoticed.

“You’re grumpy.”

Faust’s eye flicked away, instantly proving the fact that he was about to try and deny. “It’s nothing, Athari.”

Athari’s mouth twisted into a disapproving and disbelieving frown. “It’s not _nothing_ , sweet. Something’s bothering you. Tell me.”

Athari was blocking the doorway, making it impossible for Faust to get past him without physically moving him. And they both knew Faust wouldn’t do that. It was clear he wasn’t going to get inside without admitting to what was the problem. And his back itched like hell.

“It’s just my back, Athari, it’ll stop soon.”

“Your back?” There was a brief moment of concern and confusion, and then a glint appeared in his eyes. “Do you mean here?”

Athari got in close, reaching around to touch at the spot right behind his shoulders, but he stopped after the first light touch brought a twist to Faust’s features.

“Does it hurt? Do you want me to fetch one of my trinkets?”

Faust shook his head. “No. I’m fine, it just... Itches.” Though he briefly wondered if the drugs in their blood might be able to alleviate the worst of it. The idea of medicating himself was still uncomfortable, however. It was too easy to remember the cause for his scars.

Athari’s face cleared of the concern, and Faust saw that glint get even brighter. “I could help with that, you know.” The man almost purred his words out, and he took Faust’s hand, all but dragging him into the building. Faust let himself be taken inside, not inclined to fight for the moment.

He did pause, however, when Athari got him to a couch and told him to take off his shirt, shifting uncomfortably. “You don’t need to do anything, really. It’ll be done in a few da-”

“Hush, Faust. It’s bothering you. Let me help.”

Faust sighed, hesitating for a few more moments before giving in and pulling off his coat. The shirt was a bit trickier, it always was, and he gave a soft noise of displeasure as even that act seemed to make the itching worse.

His actions only got more awkward as he caught the look on Athari’s face. Faust’s scarring went far beyond just his face and neck, extending down over much of the left half of his body. That, along with the spines on his back, had nearly managed to completely distract Athari once more. Faust suspected that if the man hadn’t been planning on _doing_ something, he would have just gotten lost looking at him. Again.

“Ah... Mm. Right. On the couch.”

Faust moved to lay down on his front, almost glad for the opportunity to hide his face in the cushions. He tensed as he felt Athari slip on top of him, straddling his hips. He opened his mouth to protest, but what came out instead was a surprised groan.

Athari’s hands were at his back, scratching lightly in between the spines, and god, it felt good. Faust was glad he’d hidden his face, sure that somehow, even though it shouldn’t be able to happen, his face would have gone bright red.

It wasn’t long before Athari’s fingers moved their attention to the spines themselves, and Faust gave another sigh as the shedding outer layer of one came free at the man’s attentions. 

“Are you _shedding_ , Faust?” The delighted satisfaction in Athari’s voice made Faust want to squirm, but instead he just nodded. There wasn’t exactly any point in denying it, after all.

The next few minutes passed in relative silence, and for once it was Faust who broke it the most. He’d never had anyone to help with the shedding in the past, and having the loose layers of the spines teased away one by one felt... Incredible. He genuinely couldn’t keep the soft noises from escaping his throat.

He was almost disappointed when it was finally over. But he had to admit, he felt _much_ better. He lifted himself off the couch and tried to look at Athari, only really managing to glance in his direction before looking down at the floor.

“....Thank you, Athari.”

“ _Any time_ , sweet.”


	5. Daydreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asriel has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff, but with some death threats used as 'comfort.'
> 
> Characters involved are Charys Driscoll, and their childe, Asriel Kovacs, both Malkavians.
> 
> Date/Time: 2pm, 27th Dec, 1999

At times it was a relief that this new curse allowed Asriel to sleep during the day, regardless of whether or not he wanted to, or what thoughts were going on in his mind. Other times, like ~~tonight~~ today, it was worse. There was no way to escape the nightmares if he couldn’t stay awake. Not that the nights were much better. They had always been the time where it had been the worst. The creature that had been following him, tormenting him, he only came in the night. 

Asriel’s eyes shot open, and a quick glance at the covered windows confirmed his suspicion. There was a tiny amount of light coming through one of the corners. It was still day. Safe perhaps from the one that had tormented him, but not from the memories of him.

Asriel covered his eyes with his hands, letting out a low whine, and startled as he heard something shift in the corner. But the face that looked over to him still looked human, not like _his_ , eyes dark and concerned, not filled with malicious glee. Asriel’s face twisted and he squirmed on the bed, burying his face in the pillow.

“I’m sorry...”

The voice was muffled, as was the sound of his sire wordlessly rising from their little nest on the floor. Asriel didn’t understand why Charys let him have the bed, didn’t understand why they stayed on the floor, he was too nervous to argue otherwise.

He tensed for a moment as the cool body of his sire pressed against his own, one arm thrown over him in an unusual display of comfort.

“If he steps foot into this room, I’ll rip him into pieces. Sleep.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have found that comforting, but he did. Sleep came back easily, and thankfully, for the rest of the day, far more peacefully.


	6. What's Mine is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story involves implied rape & torture, violence and choking. There is also frenzy and an Embrace.
> 
> Characters involved are Charys and their newly acquired childe, Asriel. The nosferatu belongs to someone else, so the name was removed to make him more of an 'npc.' 
> 
> Charys' pronouns shift from They/Them to It/Its and back.
> 
> Date/Time: November 24th, 1999 - 2:00 am

The moon was full, shining overhead like a beacon. Her light shimmered and wavered with the movement of the breeze, and it was nights like these that Charys felt alive. 

They breathed in, feeling the chill air enter their body, and let it out in a sigh. It was too cold outside for many kine to be out, and late enough that even the more industrious tended to be secreted away in their homes, sleeping away the dark. But the dark was there whether they were aware of it or not. Charys was proof of that.

Charys wasn’t particularly hungry, nor was there opportunity for a hunt, but their hackles were raised any way. There was something in the air tonight. Something in the network, no doubt, but it came with none of the familiar feelings of the other lunatics in the city. Even the Primogen was silent tonight, or perhaps they were all simply being drowned out by something else.

Ah, the moon.

They had been still for a while, and they came back to themselves only with effort. The moon could ensnare them whenever they were aware of it, but on nights like this, when she swelled and shifted, they were helpless not to listen. They wondered, sometimes, if the garou felt this way. No doubt they would be offended by their connection to something so tied to them.

Without thinking, they moved, the breathing they had indulged in quelled in an instant. They padded silently through the streets, shifting with the patterns of shadow. The world seemed to sharpen even as they seemed to fade from it. There was nothing to hunt tonight, but oh, they were hunting. _It_ was hunting.

The creature didn’t know where it was going, but it moved with purpose, following some call only it could hear. The moon had told it so. There was prey, there was kin. For the moment they seemed the same thing.

An alley, dark and foreboding. A sound, only a gasp and a scuffle. More than one hunter tonight. But the prey burned bright, and didn’t belong to anyone else but _it_. A pause, head tilted, what to do. The prey was struggling, still awake ( _still alive_ ) but unable to cry out. The moon swelled again, almost seeming to throb. Urgent.

Still alive but not for long.

It crept into the darkened alley, the moon did not touch here. It was silent, moving forward with haste but with care. Like the other hunter, it wanted to remain unseen, unheard. The Kine were troublesome, all loud noises and stupid questions. Guns and bullets and knives.

They were at the end of the alleyway, a writhing pair hidden against the wall. The pretty, young thing couldn’t scream because there was something around his neck. The attacker had a cord around his neck, pulled tight with grotesque hands, an even more disgusting grin on his face. He was not Kine, nothing that ugly could be.

The prey was afraid, terrified, but still fighting. Trying to push his hands up into his attacker’s face, trying for the eyes. He was used to defending himself, but against other mortals. Against this one he had no hope. He seemed to know it, as well, as his attempts weakened, but there was a savage desire for survival in his eyes. He wanted to live, even as his eyes rolled back into his skull he wanted to live.

The creature prowled closer, watching as the grip never slacked. He was killing the pretty young thing, but he didn’t use his teeth. Killing not for food, then. _No, of course not_ , the moon seemed to whisper. _He is killing for fun. Killing for-_

A snarl ripped through the silence. Charys didn’t need to hear that to know what it meant. And it could see, now. The way his body moved. The tense excitement.

A fist connected with wall, the force enough to break bone in the Kine. But it wasn’t Kine either, it was a hunter, and it would not stand by as its prey was defiled. The Nosferatu had moved, wouldn’t have had time if Charys hadn’t given itself away, but that didn’t matter. The grip had loosened, the prey drew breath but did not wake.

“What the _fuck_ -”

Mutual recognition as their eyes met. Charys knew this one, the disgraced Primogen, the killer and torturer and psychopath. It had heard of some of the things he had done. Teeth bared in another snarl, and the Malkavian interposed its body in between hunter and prey. It was already beyond words, the fury had swelled with the moon and driven out all rational thought. Not that there had been much to begin with, that night.

There was a smell of blood in the air, and Charys wondered how long this thief had been toying with what belonged to _it_ and it alone. 

The furious creature leapt forward, not giving the Nosferatu time to think, nor react. This pathetic excuse for a hunter was thin ( _ ~~weak~~_ ) and used to having the upper hand. Even if not Charys wouldn’t have feared him. Held in sway as it was, the one in front of him could have been far more threatening and it still would have attacked.

Claws struck out, claws that didn’t belong spilling foul blood into the air. As the Nosferatu cried out in pain and surprise, Charys uttered a single word.

“ _Mine_.”

The Nosferatu didn’t need any more incentive than that. The claws had only grazed, but it was enough to know the Malkavian meant business. The Nosferatu turned tail and ran without another word. 

There was a moment, brief and sharp, where the sight of him running was almost enough to send the creature after him. There was nothing like the sight of fleeing to raise that hunting instinct within it. But a sound at its heel made it pause.

The Nosferatu disappeared around the corner, and with the source of their frenzy gone, Charys felt some of their mind come back to them. Slowly, they allowed the claws to fade back away, and they turned their attention to the Kine on the ground.

He was dirty, far dirtier than just this night could account for. Homeless, probably. His face and clothes were stained with blood, and his mouth was half-covered with tape. No doubt the Nosferatu had been having some ‘fun’ with him before Charys had come along. It brought a grimace to their face. They weren’t entirely bothered by the concept of violence, not even when it was just for fun.

But what had been coming next disgusted them.

They were left at a bit of an impasse. They couldn’t just leave the kine here, it would either be a breach or that Nosferatu would be back to finish the job. The prudent thing to do would probably be to kill him while he was still out of it. But that possessiveness that they had felt earlier hadn’t faded. For better or worse, they _wanted_ this one. 

Charys made their decision as the Kine’s eyes fluttered open. There was brief panic, but it settled into terrified stillness as Charys crouched near him, like a bird hoping the cat would pass it by if it played dead. 

“He’s gone. You’re safe.” _You’re mine._ “Promise you wont scream?”

The Kine nodded warily, and Charys reached forward to pull the tape from his lips. He brought in a sharp breath, and for a moment Charys tensed, ready to put their hand over his face if it was needed. But it was let out quietly, if shakily, and the poor thing curled in upon himself.

“What happened? What was that thing? Wha-wha...”

“Shh...” Charys placed a hand on his head, soothing as best he could. “He’s gone. I’m going to protect you from now on. What’s your name?”

The kine lifted his head, tears trailing down his cheeks. His breath came in hitched sobs, making it difficult to speak.

“A-Asriel.”

Charys nodded, then moved to tilt Asriel’s head to the side, he moved easily enough, too stunned by the shock of what had happened to even conceive of what was coming. 

“Asriel. I’ll make it better.”

They darted in quickly, and there was only a brief moment of struggle before the pleasure of the Kiss took all resistance from him, and it wasn’t long before the loss of blood stole consciousness from him once again.

He would awake Kine no more.


	7. Seclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relatively SFW story, a flashback to Italy in 1902, between Julian (known as 'Giuliano' in this story), my Malkavian Scourge, and Claudio, his Sire. Content warnings for abandonment and vague suicidal thoughts.
> 
> The characters involved are Julian (Giuliano) Antoni and Claudio. Both of them belong to me.
> 
> All dialogue is in Italian.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, he couldn’t place the difference in his sire’s emotions even if he knew it was there. Of course, something had been wrong since he’d been embraced. He was lacking, his own emotions and thoughts dulled to the point he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t just dead. Properly dead. He didn’t breathe anymore, but Claudio still seemed lively.

Maybe a part of his soul had made its escape when his heart had stilled.

“Giuliano. Are you hungry?”

Giuliano blinked slowly, looking to Claudio as he turned his mind inward. Yes. He was hungry. He wanted blood. His sire’s specifically. He nodded just as slow, his eyes dropping to Claudio’s wrist. It was coming up to that time again, the time he’d craved since he first tasted that blood. Back when he was alive.

“Good.”

Wrong. Something was wrong. There was an edge to Claudio’s voice. There was a smile on his face but he wasn’t happy. There was a hint of redness in his eyes, the swelling of tears made of the same vitae that flowed through his veins.

“Close your eyes, Giuliano. Keep them closed.”

Giuliano did, helpless to deny the order even if he’d wanted to. Claudio’s hands cupped his face, lifting his chin, and he let it happen, let their lips press together. He tried to respond like he used to, but he knew it fell flat. 

Wrong.

Even the kiss felt strange, tasting like desperation and loss. He could smell the vitae spilling, and he wanted to taste it. That wasn’t right, he knew. He should care. Should say something or do something but he didn’t know what.

“Count to a hundred, Guiliano, then you can open your eyes.”

And he did. He started counting. Even as he heard his sire pull away. Even as he heard him place something down and leave. He kept counting as the footsteps faded. The feeling of wrongness continued and swelled and threatened to become an actual _feeling_. He kept counting until he was finished, and his eyes drifted immediately to the piece of paper on the table.

‘ _You won’t find me, Giuliano. Goodbye._ ’

It wasn’t even signed. 

His hands shook as he picked the paper up, and he didn’t have time to think about the fact that there was a sense of panic welling in his chest. Claudio was gone, and artificial as it was, the blood bond was strong enough to affect him. 

“Claudio?”

His voice was quiet, but strained. The most emotion he’d shown since the embrace, and his sire wasn’t here to see it. He felt like he was dreaming as he stumbled towards the door. He both felt it and didn’t, the emotion was distant, like he was feeling it through someone else. Through Claudio, maybe.

It was raining. The smell of him was gone as soon as he stepped outside. The stone path showed no sign of his passing. Guiliano was dulled, but he hadn’t lost his intelligence. It was clear that his sire had waited for a moment like this. A moment he could slip away without leaving a trace of where he had gone.

Was it a prank? A jab to try and get something out of him? If it was it was working. But it didn’t feel that way. That _wrongness_ was too strong. 

“ _Claudio?_ ”

He stood in the rain, staring into the darkness. He needed to find him, but how could he, if Claudio truly wanted to disappear? It had been hard enough to find him in the first place, when he’d been ordered to go kill him. After all that had happened Giuliano was sure that Claudio had _let_ himself be found back then.

“Don’t.... Don’t go.”

He wanted to run, to beg. Surely he couldn’t be that far... Surely he wasn’t really gone. But he couldn’t move. The indecision wracked him. If he went the wrong way, he would lose him. If he didn’t go at all, he would lose him. If he found him.... Would he lose him even then?

And as the time went on, he knew it would be harder and harder to find him. And he was just _standing_ there. The world swam around him, too much and too distant at the same time. The rain poured, and time passed.

The sun was rising. And it was tempting to just... Stay. To let it overtake him. He had nothing left without Claudio, after all. No guidance, no feeling, no desires of his own. All he’d wanted was his sire, his sire’s blood. He would have done anything for it. But what Claudio wanted, he wasn’t able to give.

He would have stayed. But the first rays of the sun peaked over the horizon, and the sudden pain and fear was more than he had the will to resist. Just as he had no desire to survive, he couldn’t muster the desire to die, either.

He was driven back inside, soaking and hurt and scared. And sleep took him.


	8. Once a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to 1900, when Julian (known as 'Giuliano' in this story) was still Claudio's ghoul. The characters involved are Julian (Giuliano) Antoni and Claudio. Both of them belong to me.
> 
> Content warnings for this one are: Choking, murder, rape, blood and betrayal

Giuliano was on edge, he had been for the past few hours. Claudio had told him to be wary today, and he had an idea why. After all, if he’d failed, they weren’t going to just leave it be. Someone else had to be coming eventually. When someone wanted someone else dead, they didn’t tend to just give up when it didn’t work the first time.

Part of Giuliano was hoping they would come while Claudio was still asleep. If they did, that meant they were mortal, and he could handle that. He wasn’t sure he could protect against another vampire, though, even with the added vigour his domitor’s blood had given him. Of course, if another vampire showed up, Claudio would have a fair chance of defending himself. He’d certainly made short work of Giuliano when he’d come to try.

He could remember, for the first while, the anger and humiliation that he’d felt at his failure, but now he was only glad. He’d grown to feel for the vampire with something that edged on fanaticism. He was smart enough to wonder if that was entirely his own feeling, but it was also strong enough that he didn’t care.

He loved Claudio, and he would protect him at the cost of his own life, if that was what it came to.

So he was waiting, hidden in Claudio’s room, forcing him not to stare at the ethereal beauty of him. His ears were straining for any hint of sound. They would be quiet, if they were even half as good as him. But he could hope that they wouldn’t know he was there. They would assume he was dead, if they knew about him at all.

A small creak of wood was all the warning he got before the door began to open. It was quiet enough that he might have simply thought it was part of the house, if he hadn’t been listening out for it. Good. As much tension there was in him, he was excited as well. Excited to use the skills he’d been training all his life once again. Excited to try them on someone who also knew what they were doing.

The door opened, and Giuliano held his breath, keeping himself perfectly still. He was well hidden, and in the dim lighting he knew if he didn’t give himself away, the intruder would have little hope of spotting him.

The man looked around, taking in his surroundings before moving forward. Good, but not good enough. It wasn’t long before he decided he was safe, and began creeping forward.

Giuliano moved silently as well, slipping from his hiding place, knife in hand. He moved slowly, even though both his concern for Claudio and his excitement screamed for him to just attack. He couldn’t risk giving himself away too early. As much as he wanted to use his skills, his weren’t designed for a long fight. He was an assassin, best utilized when his prey had no idea he was there.

He could have just killed the man, of course. His back was turned, and Giuliano knew exactly where to strike to kill. But he didn’t want it to be over so quickly. He wanted this to last. Wanted information and blood and screams.

So the next best target was one that was just as available to strike. Once he was close enough (and the other was so close, too, too close to Claudio), his knife found the back of the man’s leg. Sharp steel sliced through almost to bone in one savage slash, and there was a sound like a crack as the tendon there snapped, rendering his leg useless.

The scream was immediate, conveying surprise and pain. Giuliano darted back as the man spun around, and there was a brief moment where their eyes met. Dante. He knew this man. They’d been as friendly as two hired killers could be with each other. There was a momentary pang, but it didn’t last.

“ _Giuliano?_ I thought you were de-”

Giuliano didn’t waste any time, darting forward and shoving the other man square in the chest, unbalancing him easily as only one of his legs could properly support him. He went down, though his grip on his weapon was still strong.

He didn’t give the man any time to recover. He was still dangerous, and as soon as he got over the shock of seeing Guiliano’s face, he would use that. Giuliano aimed a savage kick at the hand that held the knife, and the blade went skittering across the floor.

A moment later he brought himself down, landing with one knee on Dante’s chest, impacting him hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs. A moment later a knife was at his throat, and the man went still, staring up at his once-friend with wide, shocked eyes.

“Giuliano, what are you doing? Are you _protecting_ him?”

Giuliano responded with a harsh backhand to the man’s face, making him reel for a few moments.

“Did Marco send you? Or was it someone else?”

“Giul-”

Another slap, and the knife bit into skin, causing a trickle of blood to form at Dante’s throat. The sight was a pleasing one, but didn’t stir him the way Claudio’s did.

“Answer the question, idiot. Or do you need a little more incentive?”

His free hand moved to grip the man’s hair, keeping his head firmly on the floor. The knife moved quickly and mercilessly, one moment at his neck, the next it was being driven into the soft flesh of Dante’s gut.

There was another scream, and now he could hear the sounds of movement on the bed. It was early, still, for Claudio to wake, but perhaps the mingled scent of blood and the screams in the air had been enough. He looked up from the man on the floor to see Claudio pulling himself up, his heart speeding even further at the beautiful sight of him.

“Mm... Another human. How boring, I’m beginning to think they don’t even want me dead.”

Claudio shifted, moving closer to the bed but not leaving it just yet. His lower half was still covered by the sheets, but his chest was bare, and for a moment Guiliano found himself distracted.

Dante saw his chance, trying to go for Giuliano’s face, grunting with the effort of moving at all with the knife inside of him. Giuliano snarled, not pulling back, it was what the man wanted from him, but instead driving the knife deeper, twisting it in place. 

The man howled in pain, his struggling stopping almost immediately, hands dropping to his sides. 

“Giuliano, _please_ , why are you doing this?”

Giuliano looked back down at his victim, saw the pleading and confusion in his expression. There was another pang, and he hesitated for a moment, but Claudio’s hand touched his chin, stroking along his jaw.

“Kill him for me slowly, will you, Giuliano? He tried to kill me.”

Giuliano shuddered at the touch, having to resist the urge to lean into it. His eyes hardened, glinted a little with that earlier excitement. He ignored the pleading as he began to pull the knife out of the wound, and then _slowly_ pushed it back in.

With his focus back on the man it was easy enough to shift out of the way as he tried to strike again, not even bothering to react to the poor attempt the man made of using his good leg. The action clearly worked the muscles in his abdomen, and only caused him more pain. Giuliano began to find a rhythm, unaware that he was moving his hips as well as he began to push the knife in and out.

“Fuck. God. Stop, please, _yes_ it was Marco, please sto-”

Giuliano twisted the knife idly, watching the man’s face twist in pain.

“Shut up, Dante.”

“ _Dante?_ Oh, Giuliano, did you know this one? How delicious.”

The hand at his cheek slowly shifted, Claudio leaning over the edge of the bed until his hand made it all the way down to Giuliano’s pants.

“Why don’t you give him a little parting gift, then?”

He squeezed, and it was clear enough what he meant. Giuliano felt his flesh react, becoming painfully hard, he had already been excited. And a quick glance over at Claudio was all he needed to spur himself into action. The way the sheets clung barely to his hips, showing even more now.

And he had to admit, he was excited to be the one in control for once. He hadn’t had the chance since long before he’d met Claudio, his work making it... Difficult, to find a partner of either gender.

He took no care as he pulled the knife from Dante’s gut, holding it up to Claudio like an offering. It would be too dangerous to do this with it there, he didn’t doubt for a moment that Dante would use it on him if he gave him the chance. It was difficult not to watch Claudio as he took it, but he forced his attention down. There would be time for _him_ later.

There was a struggle as Giuliano pulled down Dante’s pants, but it was as brief as it was pathetic. He was too wounded to put up a proper fight, and Giuliano was able to bat away his attempts at self-defence. His own breathing got ragged as well as he pulled himself free of his own pants.

He glanced towards Claudio again, but the man only gestured towards the one on the floor. Claudio had a liquid that he liked to use for this, whenever it was Giuliano getting fucked, but it seemed that it wasn’t going to be shared. That left Giuliano with only the option of improvisation. And, well, there was plenty of at least _one_ liquid about, morbid as it was.

Giuliano dug his fingers into the wound, causing another harsh sound of pain. There was plenty of blood, and he coated his fingers and hand with it, before stroking it onto himself. Claudio’s hand was back higher now, rubbing his shoulder, encouraging him to keep going. 

He shifted their bodies, moving off of him now and pressing in between Dante’s legs. The man gave another sound of pain and fear as Giuliano began to push into him. The blood wasn’t doing a very good job, and he was so _tight_ , but it wasn’t even really about the pleasure at this point. He was enjoying seeing the man suffer, and even more, he was enjoying putting on a show for Claudio.

“Giu... S.. Stop”

“Shut _up_.”

Giuliano wrapped a hand around Dante’s throat, squeezing tight, choking off his attempts at speaking. The man’s hands came up to his wrist, trying to pull him off, but he had no hope. Giuliano began to thrust, slow at first, but slowly building up speed. The sensation was a mix of pleasure and pain, and Giuliano grimaced as he moved, but the fact that it was nothing but pain for Dante kept him going.

“Don’t let him die till you’ve finished, Giuliano, that would be rude.”

His grip let up almost immediately, and Dante sucked in a deep gasp of air. It came back out in a sob of gibberish, which Giuliano ignored. Claudio was turning his head again, and he saw that Claudio had finally moved from underneath the covers. There he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, beautiful and perfect, his cock hard and waiting.

He barely needed the man’s hand to pull him in, and he wrapped his lips around Claudio’s flesh with a soft groan. It took effort to keep fucking Dante, but it was what he’d been told to do, and so he did it. It was much easier to let himself sink onto Claudio’s flesh, swallowing him down with practiced ease. Claudio’s hand bunched in his hair, and Giuliano felt his heart skip a beat.

The movement was awkward, but eventually he managed to find a rhythm, moving his head and his hips in tandem, his climax growing closer even as the sounds Claudio made showed he was approaching his own.

Claudio came first, the hand at the back of Giuliano’s head pulling him in deep as the man’s load spilled into his throat. He gasped as Claudio pulled back, and a single look up at the man’s satisfied face was enough to spill him over the edge as well.

He slowed to a stop, panting, and grinned down at his victim. His hand clasped around the man’s neck again, once more cutting off the man’s air. He didn’t have much longer either way, by the looks of him. He’d lost too much blood, and his struggles and protests had grown progressively weaker over the last few minutes. It didn’t take long for him to slip unconscious, but Giuliano didn’t let up until he was sure the man wouldn’t be capable of taking another breath. 

“Such a delicious treat to wake up to, Giuliano. Perhaps I should bait more assassins in my spare time.”

Claudio slipped off the bed, shooing Giuliano away from the corpse. A little awkwardly, he stuffed himself back into his pants, watching as the vampire placed his lips on the man’s neck, sucking what blood was left from his body. Giuliano’s head span a little as he came down from the high, the reminder that he’d known Dante trying to intrude on his consciousness. But he pushed it away. It was what Claudio had wanted, and the man _had_ been trying to kill him.

Claudio stood again, moving over to his pet killer with a bloody grin. He pressed their bodies together, drawing him into a passionate kiss. Giuliano could feel his body trying to respond just from that alone. He sighed as Claudio pulled back, the taste of Dante’s blood on his lips.

“I’m going back to bed, Giuliano, it’s _far_ too early for this. Clean up your little mess and come join me when you’re done.”


	9. Near the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to November of 1999, between Maynard and his Ghoul, Hart. Maynard is mine, and Hart belongs to EffingEden.
> 
> Content warnings for this one are: Blowjobs, handjobs, orgasm control and safeword use.

Working Hart up to the edge of the point of no return had quickly become one of Maynard’s favorite past times. Sex hadn’t really been something he’d been interested in, in life or after it, but his ghoul had changed that. After a lot of stubborn, relentless chasing, perhaps, but Maynard was glad now that Hart had put so much effort into wooing him. He’d thought it simply wasn’t an option for him anymore.

But Hart was not only head over heels for him (a strange thought), but he was perfectly fine with the way Maynard’s body was as well (even stranger). It helped him feel better about it as well, knowing Hart cared for him just as much now as he would have if he’d had the right body to begin with. Even his vampiric nature didn’t seem like a draw against their relationship, it meant that Maynard could keep himself cool and collected while he systematically destroyed Hart’s composure. 

Tonight was one of those nights that it was particularly useful. Their play had been going on for close to an hour now, and Hart had been reduced to a whimpering, shivering mess. Just how Maynard liked to see him.

Maynard lowered himself between Hart’s legs again, taking the man’s cock into his mouth. The warmth and vitality of him was intoxicating, and the mewling sounds Hart made as he sucked and licked were even better. He waited until he could hear that particular shudder in Hart’s breath that meant he was getting a little too close to the edge before pulling back again, giving him a small break.

“You’re beautiful like this, Kai.”

The man beneath him squirmed, and Maynard grinned, rubbing a hand soothingly along Hart’s leg, waiting until the man had gained some semblance of control over himself again. 

“Are you ready to try again?”

Hart looked at him with an expression of mingled excitement and fear. So far they hadn’t been able to keep Hart from cumming during the Kiss, but there was a first for everything. And, well, it had taken him a while to learn how to back himself off from the edge in the first place, too. Hart nodded, unconsciously holding his breath.

“Breathe, remember to breathe. You’re doing so well.”

With that, he moved his head to first lightly kiss the skin of Hart’s thigh, then opened his mouth to sink his teeth into the flesh. There was another shuddered mewl as Hart fought against the pleasure of it, and it was difficult for even Maynard to keep his focus as he drank the man’s blood.

Hart was a mess by the end of it, a beautiful, sobbing mess, but as Maynard licked the wound closed, he saw that Hart had finally done it. He’d kept himself from being pushed over the edge by the pleasure, and Maynard gave him a rare smile, one that was honest and sincere and full of pride.

Gently, so as to not ruin the delicate balance, he moved from between Hart’s legs, slipping up next to him so that he could pull the redhead into a deep kiss. 

“You did so well, I’m so proud of you.” Maynard’s lips twisted into a slightly more sadistic smile. “Next we’ll try it while I’m fucking you, I think.”

The reaction was immediate, an overwhelmed sob spilling from Hart’s lips. “ _Mercy_ , m.. master.”

Maynard grinned, _both_ safewords at once, it was impressive. But any hint of mischief was gone from his expression, and he reassured Hart with the pressure of his body against him even as he reached down to wrap a hand around the man’s cock.

“Alright, Kai, cum for me.”

It didn’t take much more than the touch and the whispered order, Hart’s body already so close to the edge. He whined as he came, overwhelmed by the sensation, but Maynard stayed close, whispering praise and reassurance into his ear until he was finished. 

And then for a while longer.


	10. Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to June of 1997, between Maynard and his Ghoul, Hart. Maynard is mine, and Hart belongs to EffingEden.
> 
> No real content warnings for this one, just some bad flirting.

**~June 10th, 1997~**

The longer he was alive, the more difficult it was to keep up with mortal society. He knew many other kindred just gave up before long, but he was unwilling to distance himself the way others did. So, on occasion, Maynard went out to observe. It might not be the most efficient way of learning how to act human, but it _was_ the easiest, and it gave him something to do on slow nights. Better than dealing with all the politics that came with socialising with other kindred. 

Tonight, he was sitting outside of one of the local bars. It was fairly busy, even though it was a weeknight, enough people around that he could blend into the crowd, few enough that his being alone wasn’t too noticeable. A good thing, too, as he’d been pretending to sip from the same beer for a while now. That was the hardest part of it. Humans seemed to be drinking and eating constantly, and simply sitting there without one or the other was suspicious. 

By far, though, he wasn’t the most suspicious person out tonight. Unfortunately for the humans, they seemed to be noticing the other one about as well as they were noticing him. Maynard had seen him a few times tonight. Dressed in traveling shoes, muddy shirt, a messy mop of red hair on his head. He looked for all the world like any hiking tourist, the bag on his back just as worn as he looked. 

Maynard hadn’t even really noticed him the first time he’d seen him, either. Just overheard with little interest the sob story the man was giving. That he was far from home, his train ticket had been lost or destroyed. He only needed twenty dollars or so to get back. Maynard might even have believed him if he’d come up to him. He certainly _sounded_ sincere. And people believed him. He only had to linger for a little while at a time before someone would hand him the money, and he would disappear for a time again.

But then he came back. And back. Same story, same clothes, somehow managing to sound more destitute and desperate and thankful each time he came along. Maynard couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been keeping it up, if he’d shown up before Maynard had arrived. He had to give him points for the acting, at least, though he couldn’t say much for his morals. Maynard could have done something, of course, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Besides, after the first few times, he was beginning to find it interesting to watch him work. Perhaps if it had been something worse, he might have intervened, but the victims were hardly going to miss the money too much.

He frowned at his own reasoning, resisting the urge to sigh at himself. That thought wasn’t exactly in line with what he wanted out of his own morals, it was against why he was even bothering to come out here and watch, arguably. Sure, they might not miss the money, might even feel good about themselves for the night, but it didn’t excuse what the man was doing. Still, the point of not drawing attention to himself was important, so instead of making any fuss, he simply left for the night. He could always come back later.

* * *

**~June 12th, 1997~**

He was there again. A different outfit this time, but his hair was just about as messy. The con of the night had changed, too, Maynard noted with cynical amusement. This time it was hair cut vouchers of all things. The man was approaching women with styled hair, offering them a voucher he’d been ‘given for his birthday.’ Saying it was no use to him, and offering it to them for less than it was ‘worth.’

Maynard had no doubt that the vouchers were fake, though at a glance they certainly looked legitimate. The glance caught the man’s eye, as well, and there was the briefest glimmer of recognition. When he left that time, frankly, Maynard didn’t expect him to come back, tonight or any other night. He seemed clever enough to realize when he might have been pegged. 

It was almost a shame, but at least it meant Maynard could get back to doing what he’d actually come here for. The other humans mingled, and Maynard let his mind drift a little as he watched them. It was less interesting, perhaps, but at least he could catch the way they spoke to each other, could get glimpses of how they used the technology that was slowly but surely becoming omnipresent among the kine. 

He was taken by surprise a few hours later as someone slipped into the seat opposite him. He almost started, but kept his reaction under wraps, too stubborn to admit that he’d been caught unawares. He turned a glare to this intruder, and he wasn’t entirely surprised to see that familiar flop of hair.

“Hey handsome, could you help me st-”

“Your roots are showing.”

The reaction was immediate, the confident charming smile on the man’s face wiped in an instant, replaced by a wounded expression. He looked like a kicked puppy, and after a moment of silence he simply stood and left. Maynard was left a little stunned at how quickly it had happened. And a little bit of him even felt guilty as he watched the man leave. 

Apparently he’d found a nerve.

* * *

**~June 13th, 1997~**

He supposed it would’ve been too much to ask for the man not to be there. Maybe he should find a new haunt for a while. This one worked mostly because he rarely saw people more than once, at least in a short amount of time. It could be dangerous to linger around the kine when there was one that noticed his presence. The bartenders weren’t too bad, they were used to strange things, but this one could be dangerous...

But maybe he wouldn’t approach again. He seemed to have taken the previous comment to heart, after all. There was a renewed vitality to the colour of his hair, and Maynard couldn’t see any hint of roots. Not that that should matter. He wasn’t entirely sure _why_ he’d bothered to notice it, now or the last time. Perhaps it was the particular flavour of con he’d been pulling.

It seemed that he wasn’t wasting time with any of those tonight, though. Maynard’s eyes narrowed as the man made a beeline over towards him, slipping back into the seat as if last night hadn’t even happened. 

“Hey. I’m a so-”

“I’m _really_ not interested.”

The man pulled a face, his lip twisting in disapproval. “You know, it’s polite to let people finish their pick-up lines before you blow them off. I mean, we can get right to the blowing if you _want_ but-”

Maynard cut him off with a sigh and a glare, but the man’s composure seemed unrattled now. “What do you want?”

The man gave a grin, and Maynard’s eyes narrowed even further. Not necessarily because it was annoying (it was), but because it was an _attractive_ grin, which only served to frustrate him even more.

“You.”

“Not interested.”

“That’s because you haven’t heard my pick-up line yet. I’m a south african prince and I have a big deposit with your name on it.”

There was a moment of silence, Maynard’s only response a flat glare.

“No? How about this one. I don’t need a spoonful of sugar to swallow you.” This one was accompanied by a wink.

“Fuck off.”

“Well if you’re not interested in receiving... Hey, if I stand up you’re at the perfect height for... For.”

The man trailed off as Maynard’s glare turned to ice. And once again, he simply stood up and left. Probably the smartest move, given that Maynard was struggling to keep himself from shattering the bottle in his hand.

* * *

**~June 14th, 1997~**

The flare of anger had faded almost as soon as it came, he knew it was a soft spot for him, but it was deeper than just his height. He’d realized, also, that not once had the man misgendered him. He was used to his height and slightly too round hips and voice giving him away. But this stranger, annoying as he was, seemed to just... See him as male.

And he was forced to admit that it was refreshing. 

So eventually he’d decided to go back. The bar was even busier tonight, the weekend making it crowded, and at first he didn’t see him. His expression turned into one of annoyance, at himself, because his heart had dropped a little. Why the hell was he _wanting_ to see this guy? It was just going to be more horrible pickup lines at best. At worst he was falling for some new con.

He sighed, then moved over to the bar. But before he could order his usual, the bartender placed it down in front of him. 

“Your friend already paid.”

Maynard paused for a moment, a slight hint of a frown on his face, but as she began to look concerned he turned it into a smile, taking the beer with a quiet ‘thanks’ and moved away. His _friend_ , huh? He turned to scan the room, not particularly hopeful that he would find somewhere quiet to sit, it was always harder on the weekends-

There he was, in a booth all by himself. _Watching._ That grin appeared on his face as soon as he caught Maynard’s eye, and Maynard struggled briefly with the flare of mingled annoyance and... Excitement.

He debated just leaving, but he knew already that it just wasn’t going to happen. He was just prolonging the inevitable by standing there, so eventually he went over, settling uncomfortably into the seat opposite the annoying redhead.

“So, do you have a name or should I just call you mine?”

Maynard sighed again. He’d known it was coming, of course he had, but it was still exasperating.

“You’re persistent.”

“And you’re _here_.”

He had a point. An annoying, confusing point. Maynard sighed again, rubbing his face for a moment.

“What are you doing, giving me the worst cons and the worst pickup lines?”

The man grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m trying to pull something off.”

Another flat glare in response. Maynard was about to open his mouth to respond when the man beat him to it.

“You’re something, by the way. Quite something.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“I’m sure you could find a way to shut me up for a while. I’ve been told I have a skillful tongue.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not interested.”

“Then why did you come back?”

Maynard’s brow furrowed, and he hid his embarrassment and lack of any good retort behind another glare.

“I happen to like it here. The atmosphere is... Nice.”

Now it was the other man’s turn to give _him_ a look. “Uhuh.”

Maynard sighed again, running a hand distractedly through his hair before looking back at the man. His eyes had taken on a different hue in this light.

“Look. I’m not really the sort of person who... ‘Hooks up’ with people.” He hoped he’d used that right, or there wasn’t really any point to hanging around the bar in the first place. And that, at least, was true. He wasn’t the type to do much of anything with other people in fact, either sexual or romantic. Over a hundred years old and he was still a virgin.

“You wanna know a secret? I’m not really that into it either. I mean sure I’ll _flirt_ with anyone but... I’d make an exception for you.”

Maynard looked at the man’s grinning face with something bordering on incredulity. He’d heard the man flawlessly lie to the people he was conning, he’d even flirted a little with some of them, far more skillfully than this. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Flattering.”

“Yeah. Not my best work. How about this one. Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got fine written all over you.”

Maynard sighed again, the only solace that at least it was helping him to remember to breathe. But before he was forced to come up with a response, the man across from him suddenly dug into his pocket, pulling out a small device. He went suddenly tense as he looked at it, then frowned up at Maynard, looking puzzled.

“Am I busted?”

Maynard blinked, not sure how to respond, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what had sparked the question. He had, after all, noticed that this man probably wasn’t well liked by the law.

“I’m not even sure if you’re asking that for real or if this is just how bad your pickup lines are.”

Some of the tension left the redhead, and a grin came back onto his face. That damned grin.

“Well I _do_ look great in handcuffs. But it’ll have to be another time, I gotta go see a man about a dog.”

The man stood, hesitated for a moment, looking as if he might speak again, but another glance downward sent him heading for the door. Maynard tried not to watch him go, he really did, but any pretense he might have had went out the door with him as the redhead gave one last glance back.

Maynard couldn’t quite push away the disappointment he felt as the man left. It was ridiculous, he didn’t even know his _name_. He put his head in his hands for a moment, and when he looked up he noticed something on the table. Underneath the man’s drink was a slip of paper. Tentatively, he picked it up, finding a hastily scrawled number, with a short message next to it:

‘ _In case you change your mind about busting me._ ’

It seemed quick fingers could be added to the growing list of reasons he shouldn’t like the man. 

But the number found its way into his pocket nonetheless.

* * *

**~June 17th, 1997~**

Maynard was being weak, and he knew it. Nothing good could come from hanging around the bar so often, or seeing this man so much. He was a mortal, after all, but... But Maynard wanted to keep seeing him, something he wasn’t used to and so was unable to fight off the temptation. The man was annoying, morally corrupt and undoubtedly all kinds of trouble. But there was something strangely addictive about his tenacity, and Maynard would be lying if he didn’t admit the fact that he seemed to see him wholly as male was part of it.

For the past two nights he had shown up to find the man there. It had all gone predictably enough. The redhead spouted enough cheesy pickup lines to fill a book, and Maynard rebuffed him. It was almost becoming a habit. The reasons behind the rebuffs hadn’t changed, but his _desire_ to do so certainly had. There was no denying that the man had charm, and if things had been different...

Well, there was no point thinking about that.

There was no _point_ thinking about it, sure, but as the minutes ticked by with no sight of that familiar flop of hair, Maynard couldn’t help but ruminate over it. Had he finally gotten bored of getting told no? Maynard supposed he couldn’t blame him. It was probably for the best.

The minutes grew longer. There were any number of things that could have kept him, of course. Maybe he _had_ gotten busted. Maybe he’d found someone else to focus on, someone more willing. Maybe his interest in the first place had only been a con, pretending to lack his skill with words to lull him into a sense of security.

Maynard glared down at his drink, for once wishing he could actually drink it. It might help distract from all the thoughts buzzing around in there. Hell, he could probably manage to get hold of one of the kine to get a buzz, if he really wanted to, but it felt like exactly what it was. An empty way to distract himself from what felt like a missed opportunity.

He remained where he was for longer than he should have, using the poor excuse that he was ‘people watching’ to even less effect than he had the last time he’d tried to convince himself. He wasn’t paying attention to them at all, he knew, just scanning them for a familiar face. He found his hand in his pocket more than once, fingering the slip of paper that had been left for him.

After a few hours he finally gave in. There was an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it only made him scowl even more as he realized just how disappointed he was that the man hadn’t come.

At first, he didn’t notice it, there were too many people around as he began walking back home. But as he moved into quieter streets, the disappointment wasn’t enough to mask it. He was being followed.

Even as perceptive as Maynard was, it took him a few streets to be sure. It was him. The ensuing flare of ~~relief~~ frustration was almost too much to bear, but he just gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to react, not just yet. It might be quiet on this street, but not quiet enough.

So he kept walking, glad he’d already been scowling before he’d realized he was being followed. He didn’t even have to change his route, he already went through a few back alleys. He didn’t really have anything to fear after all, not physically. If anything he would have to be careful not to turn any potential attackers into paste.

He stopped, turned around, and glared into the darkness. He didn’t have the ability to _see_ him, but he knew he was there. He’d caught glances, heard the scuffling of feet. The man was good at stealth by human standards, but he was still just a human.

“You’re a vulture, you know.”

Silence. Fine, he hadn’t expected the man to break the instant he spoke. 

“I know you’re there, dumbass. You’re real bad at getting the hint. I might not be about to bust you but that doesn’t mean I have anything for a criminal like you.”

He knew he was speaking out of frustration, at himself, at the man, at the situation. It felt simultaneously satisfying and distressing. The twin emotions only got more intense as the man stepped out of the shadows, his face showing only a hint of distress and confusion but it was enough.

“If you had any shred of self-preservation you would just leave. Get out of the city. Now.”

Maynard didn’t want it. But he knew that statement was true. Better than the man could know, it wasn’t safe for him to know how true it was. The man had stopped a few feet away from him, and the silence stretched out too long. Eventually, his head tilted slowly to the side.

“How am I meant to see you again if I leave?”

The question hit Maynard like a slap, and the indignation and frustration that had been fueling him were blown away like smoke, leaving him feeling deflated. The man smiled again, disarming him further.

“You know what, take me out and I’ll think about it. Take me home and I’ll go, cross my heart and hope to die.”

Maynard grimaced, unable to keep up eye contact for a moment. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Nope. You got it backwards. I’m bad at telling the truth.”

“...Tell me your name, then.”

Another grin, god _damn_ that grin.

“Do I get to know yours?”

Maynard sighed, rubbed his temples, and gave in.

“Maynard.”

“Hart.”


	11. If You're Going to be Stubborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to November of 1997, between Maynard and his Ghoul, Hart. Maynard is mine, and Hart belongs to EffingEden.
> 
> Content warnings include: m/ftm, loss of virginity, dysphoria and internalized transphobia.

Weeks had turned into months, now, and Maynard was still meeting him. It was stupid, self indulgent, selfish. It wasn’t safe for Hart, it wasn’t _fair_ to him, either. Nothing good could come from this, their worlds were too far apart. But he couldn’t seem to resist the urge to keep seeing him, couldn’t make himself leave. Because he’d been lonely. Because he was starting to feel for this mortal in a way he’d never felt before, alive or dead.

They couldn’t go on like this, he knew. He couldn’t just keep stringing him along. He knew other kindred would have just ghouled him by now, or even turned him. But that wasn’t fair either. He couldn’t just force this on him. But there wasn’t any way to give him an informed choice, either. He would be a breach of the masquerade if he knew, and at that point it was either be dragged in or die for the knowledge. The best thing Maynard could do for him was drive him away.

And that hurt, especially since he thought it might be as easy as telling the truth.

So he was irritable, stressed, and of course Hart saw it as soon as their eyes met. Of course there would be a look of genuine concern on his face, not just fear but actual care. Of course he would make this harder. They were somewhere private tonight, at least, no one else would have to see this.

“We’re done.”

Maynard did his best to keep the strain out of his tone, to keep himself sounding aloof and uncaring. Even anger would have been better. But he wasn’t managing it.

“You know, we can’t really be done unless we were a thing to start off with. Sure you don’t wanna try-”

“Stop it. Hart. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of _you_.”

There was a moment of hurt in Hart’s eyes, but it lasted only a moment before clearing with resolve. 

“I’m pretty good at telling when someone is bullshitting me, Maynard. But you’re not just bullshitting me, are you? You’re doing it to yourself. What’s going _on_?”

Maynard was taken aback by the sudden change in demeanour. Until now Hart had met every rebuff with humour and confidence. Now he looked about as frustrated as Maynard felt.

“Why can’t you just give up on me. I can’t give you what you want.”

“Not if you’re gonna be stubborn about it, no. I _want_ you, Maynard. And if you didn’t want me too you wouldn’t keep coming to see me. I know I’m not great at telling the truth but I’ve been _trying_. Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

Maynard had to clench his teeth, fighting to keep any hint of tears from his eyes. He couldn’t let Hart see that. So he channeled it into his anger instead, let it direct itself at Hart. He could hear his pitch raising as he spoke, which only made him more stressed.

“Fine. You want to know why I won’t fuck you? Because I can’t. I literally can’t. I don’t have a dick, I never have and I _never will_.” That part came out even more ragged than the rest. He’d watched the new surgical discoveries with a sick jealousy. There was nothing he could do to change his body now. “I was born a girl and I’m not what you want.”

Hart had made many offers over the last few months, most of them lewd and descriptive in nature. It was clear what he wanted, physically, and it wasn’t Maynard.

And looking at Hart’s face now only confirmed it. The confusion, the distress. The man took a step back and swore. Ran a hand through his hair and swore again. And though Maynard had expected it, had tried to prepare himself for it, when Hart turned and bolted it felt like his world was shattering. For a brief and dangerous moment his temper flared. For a moment he almost went after him, and it would have destroyed everything he’d hurt them both so much to achieve. If Hart was gone he was safe.

He turned and stalked away, head hunched down so that no one would be able to see the red streaking down his cheeks.

* * *

His haven felt even emptier than usual. He hadn’t been able to do much past simply get through the door, and he’d curled up on the other side, back pressed against it. Trying to remind himself that it was for the best wasn’t working. It hurt too much for him to feel anything but regret. To do anything but wish he hadn’t said those things. Even if he was right that Hart wouldn’t accept him for who he was.

It was hitting just as hard as the news of his father’s death had, all that time ago. But now he had no one to blame but himself.

He felt sick. He hated himself for using his worst hurt to hurt himself even more. He hated Hart for leaving. He hated Hart for that dumb smile that had lured him in in the first place. He hated himself for that idiotic hope he’d had, even when he was saying it, that Hart would persist.

He wallowed in that hate for what felt like hours, curled up on the floor like some lovesick teenager. It was only the sound of knocking at his door that finally roused him. He tried to ignore it, he didn’t know anyone he wanted to speak to that would know where he lived. He was a private person, and in all likelihood it would just be some kine. It was late for it, but Maynard wasn’t thinking clearly enough to notice.

He _did_ , however, notice when whoever it was gave up knocking, and instead turned to trying to pick the lock. Maynard looked up darkly, noting that he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights. Whoever it was clearly thought there was no one home. He stood, quietly as possible, and stared at the door handle as it began to turn.

Whatever dumb human thought robbing him tonight was a good idea was about to suffer for it. In the mood he was in, he was fully prepared to beat them into a pulp. To not stop until they were dead.

It was pure shock at himself in that moment that stopped him from striking out as the door opened. His father had meant the world to him, and he’d tried his best to keep his morals from slipping when he’d died. Other elders, he knew, didn’t tend to be so moral as him. 

That shock turned into horror as he saw who it was. Hart. Hart grinning at him in the dark.

“I didn’t know what you would like so I got a whole bunch. And you wouldn’t _believe_ how hard it was to find a harness in your siz...”

Hart trailed off, the grin disappearing from his face as he got a better look at Maynard, at the blood staining his cheeks. He dropped something at his feet and rushed forward before Maynard could react, tentative fingers touching at the still-wet cheeks. 

“Shit. Maynard, are you hurt?”

Slowly, Maynard reached up a hand, pulling Hart’s away, unable to keep his face from showing everything he was feeling. Confusion, horror. Hope.

“What are you doing here, Hart?”

Maynard had never even told him where he lived. But out of all of this, the idea that Hart had managed to find him was the least surprising.

“You said you didn’t have a dick so I went out and got you one. Or... Like. Ten.”

Maynard flicked a glance towards the bag that Hart had dropped, and something had spilled out that certainly looked fairly phallic.

“But... I’m. I’m not-”

“Don’t say it, Maynard. I _want_ you.”

Maynard felt more tears pushing at his eyes, and he tried to pull away, but Hart followed, that concern still in his eyes.

“Why are you bleeding? What happened?”

Maynard tried to lift a hand to wipe the blood away, only really succeeded in smearing it across his cheeks and hand. He bared his teeth for a moment, struggling with himself, not sure of what to do.

“Why did you have to come back, Hart? It’s not safe.”

“Why? Because you’re a vampire?”

Maynard’s eyes opened in shock for a moment, ruining any hope he had of hiding it or brushing it off. Still, he stammered, trying to cover himself even though he’d seen the look of confirmed suspicions in Hart’s eye.

“I... _What?_ ”

“I’ve never seen you during the day. I’ve never seen you eat or drink anything, you just pretend to. And I hate to break it to you, Maynard, but you’re _literally_ crying blood. I mean, you didn’t react to the garlic but I guess if vampires really exist without people knowing maybe pop culture didn’t get everything down right. Are you scared you’re going to eat me or something?”

Maynard took a step back, and this time Hart let him. As if he knew Maynard couldn’t really escape this now. The bastard was right.

“No. But if anyone finds out you know... They’d _kill_ you, Hart. You should have just left.”

“I’m not exactly going to go broadcasting the fact that I know, you know. I’m not _that_ dumb.”

Maynard sighed, lifting a shaking hand to run through his hair, an unconscious mimic of Hart that he’d picked up. 

“It’s still not safe. The only way to be sure is to... To...”

“To what? To make me a vampire too?”

“It’s not that simple. If I don’t ask permission first they’d still have reason to kill you. I don’t think Telucti is quite that stupid but I can’t _risk you._ ”

“So what then?”

Maynard paused again, taking a breath. He didn’t even want to suggest it. But what option did he have at this point? Hart had proved too clever for his own good.

“I can’t believe you could figure out I’m a vampire but you couldn’t realize I don’t...” He didn’t want to say it again, but it seemed he didn’t have to.

“You weren’t bullshitting me about being a guy, Maynard. You just are.”

Maynard was left speechless for a moment, unable to express the effect those three words had on him. He took another deep breath before continuing, his voice shaking as he spoke.

“I could ghoul you. If you drink my blood...” He paused for a moment, forcing himself to finish. “You won’t have any _choice_ but to love me, if I told you to do something you would have to. I don’t want to do that to you.”

Hart blinked, and that smile crept onto his face. That fucking smile that had made him fall in love with him. “Like I have a choice anyway.”

Maynard’s face twisted. It was the closest either of them had come to saying it. Hart stepped in closer again, and Maynard didn’t try to pull away.

“How about this. Give me a night. One night. If you decide you can’t do it I’ll... I’ll leave. I’ll go to _Russia_ if I have to. You’ll never see me again, no one will know. I promise.”

Looking back on it later, Maynard really should have realized he was lying. But for the moment all he could think of was how much more it would hurt if he left after that. He didn’t want Hart to go. But the chance to just give in to what he wanted, to not think about it for the night, was more than he could resist.

He gripped Hart’s shirt, pulling him down (why did the bastard have to be so _tall_ ) and pressing their lips together hungrily. Hart responded immediately and with vigor, pulling Maynard in even closer, and he was panting by the time Maynard pulled back.

“....One night.” Maynard slowly looked over towards the bag again, looking a little awkward. “You’re going to have to walk me through this.”

Hart’s grin only got wider and more dazzling, approaching pure glee. “You mean it? Wait. No. Don’t answer that.”

The man scurried away, picking up the bag and moving it back over to him, flicking the light on in the process. Maynard winced, and Hart gave him a half-apologetic smile that was too excited to even approach being contrite.

“Sorry.” It sounded even less sincere than the smile looked. “Ok, so. Step one, get cock. Step two, attach cock to harness. Step three, put harness on. Step four, fuck. Rinse and repeat.”

Maynard gave an exasperated sigh, but he couldn’t even begin to hide the smile on his face. He gave another attempt at cleaning off his cheeks, but the blood had dried, and he grimaced. He grabbed Hart’s wrist with his clean hand and pulled him along towards his bedroom.

“Give me a moment, I need to get this shit off my face.”

He slipped into the bathroom and glared at the sight in the mirror. He looked like a mess, he was too short and his face too round. But Hart still wanted him. He scrubbed his face clean as quickly as he could manage before heading back out, but he was met by a sight that stopped him in his tracks.

Hart was shirtless, sprawled out on the bed and waiting for him. That grin was back, but Maynard’s eyes were quickly distracted by the man’s hands, moving along the band of his pants. Once Hart was sure he had Maynard’s full attention, he began to undo them, slowly pushing them down and off his hips, revealing his already hard cock. 

Maynard wondered just how long Hart had been going without underwear, whether it was him being hopeful or just a habit he’d already had.

Either way, he had to admit he was enjoying the sight. He stood in the doorway watching until Hart had fully bared himself for him, letting his blood suffuse his body with the vitality it would need to enjoy this. 

But that thought brought an unpleasant twist to his mouth, and his fingers idly touched at his own shirt. He wanted to do this with Hart, but... He wasn’t sure he was ready to strip in front of him. He might know about it, but Maynard didn’t want him to _see_ it.

Hart seemed to notice his reluctance, and there was a brief frown of thought on his brow before it cleared again. “You know, the great thing about a harness is that you can wear it over your clothes.”

“You... Don’t mind?”

Hart shifted on the bed, sighing and rolling his hips in an incredibly distracting display. “I mind that you aren’t already fucking me. But that? No.”

Maynard gave an awkward smile, made only more awkward by how effectively Hart was distracting him. He moved over to the bed, picking up the bag and looking inside. After getting over the strangeness of looking at a bag full of dildos, he narrowed his eyes.

“You didn’t steal these, did you?”

Hart glanced away, telling him all he needed to know. “I... _Paid_ for them.” He looked back, giving him a defensive look. “What kind of sex store is closed at this time of night, Maynard. It’s not my fault.”

Maynard sighed, it wasn’t worth fighting over, especially not with his body making demands. He pulled out one of the least strange looking ones, along with what he assumed was the harness. After a few moments of inspection, he was fairly certain he’d figured out how to put it on, and he stepped into it awkwardly.

Even though it was small, he ended up having to tighten it a little to get it to stay on, but once he had, he had to just stare at himself for a moment. He knew it wasn’t his own, but seeing a cock there, even if it was a toy... It felt good.

He was distracted from that when he heard Hart make a noise, a soft but sensual, and the sight to go with it made Maynard’s abdomen twist with lust. He hadn’t seen Hart pull out the bottle of lube, but now he was being treated to the sight of him pushing a finger into himself. It might not be saying much, given that he hadn’t had much sexual experience, but the picture Hart was making was the most erotic thing Maynard had ever seen.

And judging by the grin on his face, the bastard knew it. 

Hart offered him the bottle with his free hand, his eyes half-lidded, and spoke in a soft purr. “Pour some of that on, I’ll... Mmnn. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

Maynard took the bottle slowly, still entranced by the sight of him, but poured some of the lube onto his palm, then stroked it onto ‘his’ cock. Even as he did that, Hart pushed another finger into himself, his toes curling as he stretched himself out. He was glad that Hart seemed as impatient as he was, because he wasn’t quite sure how much longer he could wait.

A third finger, and soon after that, Hart was done. He pulled his fingers free, then lay back on the bed, his legs spread wide. “ _Please._ ”

Maynard couldn’t have resisted that if he’d tried. He clambered onto the bed, moving in between Hart’s legs, taking a careful moment to align the toy with his entrance before starting to push in. He made a startled noise of pleasure as the base of the toy pressed in against his own crotch, dulled by the fabric in the way but still more than he’d had before. The combination of dysphoria and general lack of attraction had made him utterly disinterested in masturbation.

He pushed all the way in and paused, a slow smirk coming onto his face as Hart gave him an impatient whine. It was enough to spur him into action, and he began to roll his hips, slowly at first, trying to make sure he found a comfortable pace though the sensations were trying to drive thought from his mind. He knew he was strong, and he didn’t want to risk hurting Hart just because he’d lost control.

The sounds the man was making for him were encouraging, however, and he soon found a pace they both seemed to be enjoying. He pulled Hart up into a kiss, deep and passionate and probably clumsy, but god, it felt _good_.

A little too good, perhaps, as it didn’t take long at all for him to be taken over by his first orgasm, and the power of it swept over his mind. Hart gasped and pulled back, cursing under his breath, and Maynard flushed as he realized he’d been gripping the man’s hip, far too tight. It would probably leave a hell of a bruise, later.

“Sorry...”

Hart, panting and still grinning, shook his head. “Didn’t know you were so strong. It’s pretty hot actually...” The man rolled his hips again, making a needful sound, and Maynard discovered they weren’t even nearly finished yet. The pleasure was still there, the desire, he wanted more.

He began to thrust again, finding that pace and just letting himself sink into it. The heat of Hart’s body, the feeling of his skin, the sounds he made. The _pleasure_. He lasted longer this time, but once again he came before Hart. At least he managed not to hurt him again.

He saw a glint in Hart’s eyes, a look of mischief, and Maynard glared at him. He didn’t want any joking comments about how easily he was pushed over the edge. But the glare was quickly replaced with a crafty look of his own as he remembered something. There _was_ something he could surprise Hart with, and it might very well wipe that smug look off his face.

He leaned back in, but instead of going for another kiss, he nuzzled into Hart’s neck. The man tensed for a moment, making Maynard hesitate, so instead of doing what he’d planned right away he moved his lips up to his ear.

“Do you trust me?”

Hart shuddered for a moment, and the tension didn’t leave, but he nodded, holding his breath. Maynard smiled, kissing the man’s neck before parting his lips. He hadn’t been sure, but his assumption that the Kiss would add to the pleasure was right. It swept over him, giving him another orgasm, and he felt the tension bleed out of Hart. The sound he made as he came as well was delicious.

Maynard didn’t take much, he didn’t need to, and he licked the wound closed as soon as it was done. Hart squirmed beneath him as they came to a stop, and spoke in a bit of a daze.

“That’s cheating...”

Maynard grinned, licking his lips slowly, earning a scowl from Hart. It felt nice to feel he had the upper hand in one of their interactions for once. “Maybe.”

His face fell a little as he remembered what had gotten them in this situation in the first place. He pulled put of Hart, carefully, but he was caught before he could get any further away. 

“Hey. No. I get the whole night, remember? You can think about it tomorrow.”

Maynard looked at him, then nodded, doing his best to push the thoughts away. He let himself be pulled into a hug, and he had to admit it was nice. The pressure of another body against him. The dawn was coming soon, and Hart was right. He could think about it tomorrow.

* * *

Maynard awoke to a slight sting in his arm. He wasn’t even sure why it had woken him, at first, but then he felt something else. A warmth and wetness around the pain, _sucking_ -

He jerked his arm away, a brief panic spurring him into action before he could fully figure out what was going on. His eyes shot open to see Hart looking surprised, with a streak of red on his lips. For an absurd moment, he looked exactly like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What are you _doing?!_ ”

After the initial shock, Hart was quick to recover, and his face settled into one of stubborn insistence.

“Making the decision was hurting you, so I made it for you.”

Maynard pulled his arm up to his chest, forcing the wound to heal itself as he did. “You can’t just-”

“Some other vampire could use this on me to hurt you, right? I can’t let that happen.”

Maynard opened his mouth again, saw the narrowing of Hart’s eyes as his resolve deepened, and then closed it. He had a feeling that no matter what argument he used here, Hart would have something to rebuff it with. He tried to think of something... But all he could think of was that this was what he’d hoped for, really. For Hart to want it himself, to stay by himself.

He put his head in his hands, he was exhausted, the sun was still up and his body was pushing him to go back to sleep, now that the ‘threat’ was dealt with.

“Why can’t you just be an asshole like everyone else...”

“I _am_ , I just cut you while you were sleeping.”

Maynard snorted, then looked up at him. “Fine. You win. Just... Don’t do that again, please.”

“I won’t.”

Hart wrapped around him again. Maynard was willing to trust it wasn’t another lie, Hart had gotten what he’d wanted, after all. He would have to explain the finer details of the bond later.

For now he was content just to sleep in the arms of the man he loved.


	12. Take it Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seattle, February 7th, 2000 at 1am. This story is mostly about Faust, but includes mentions of Gladstone 'Athari' Gorth, who belongs to EffingEden
> 
> Content warnings include: internal drama and whooping ass. Also swearing and a lot of 'your momma' jokes.

Faust was on edge, had been ever since last night. Enough that he’d gone out by himself, though it was still hard to leave Athari by himself, especially in these nights. He hadn’t told Athari what he was planning, didn’t think he’d approve. He’d told him he needed to hunt, and even though he’d been high, Faust didn’t think Athari had really fallen for it.

It hurt to lie, but he didn’t want to admit that he needed to go out because he’d... He’d fucked up.

It wasn’t exactly as if he was going to deal with it in a very healthy manner, either. But he was a Gangrel, a clan not well known for subtlety in dealing with emotional matters. So no, he planned to go out, get in a fucking fight, and make damn sure that he was fit enough that he wasn’t going to fail Athari in any other way.

There was a skeevy bar he knew, one that was well out of the way of the eye of the law. He was fairly certain the cops _knew_ about it, but maybe they just felt it was better the low-lives all stay in one place. That was fine, meant the cops wouldn’t get called when stuff started. Peachy.

He pushed open the door with a little more force than was probably necessary. His demeanor was almost unrecognizable to anyone who would have known him in the past few years. He held himself with confidence and an air of violence, the sort of thing you’d expect more from a mob enforcer than a legitimate bodyguard. It was basically what he’d been when he was a mortal. Before Athari.

There was more cockiness to him now than he would have ever kept, though. Because it would get attention. Because it would start a fight. People like this didn’t like strangers coming onto their turf acting like they were the shit. People were already looking at him, that was good. 

He eyed the crowd with his good eye, quickly settling on a group near the pool table. They looked angry, even better they looked like they wanted to start something about as much as he did. He strode over to them without any hesitation, and the game was quickly forgotten.

“You wanna put some money on that or are you a bunch of pussies? I’m lookin to make some real bad decisions tonight.”

The group just stood there for a moment, one of them even cracking a half smile, more confused than amused. One eventually spoke up, probably the top dog. The man had more tattoos on him than Faust had seen in a long while.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Don’t see anything wrong with your ears, numbnuts.”

“I see a lot wrong with your fucking face, wanna make the other half as butt ugly as that one?”

There was an annoyed but resigned voice from the direction of the bar.

“Don’t start that shit inside, guys.”

Faust ignored it, so did the other man.

“Still not half as ugly as your momm-”

He didn’t get through the sentence, interrupted by a fist striking him in the blind side of his face. One of the others of the group. Good to see they worked as a team. Still fucking hurt, but he recovered quickly enough, stepping back and snarling his anger.

“I said OUTSIDE, assholes.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Fuck the lot of you.”

Faust turned and headed for the door, looking for all the world like he’d just decided to leave. He didn’t expect he’d get far. And lo and behold, almost the instant he was out of the door he was being shoved.

He acted like he’d been caught off guard, if only to stumble forward a few steps before he turned. He wanted the space. He didn’t think these guys could take him, but he wasn’t going to make it _easy_ for them.

“Think we’re just gonna let you walk after talking shit like that?”

Faust took one more step back, and they followed him, but they spread out a little more, trying to circle him. He let a slow grin spread across his face, one filled with all of his frustrations. It wasn’t just the mess of last night. He’d had to work with people like this for so long, he’d never really thought he’d get out from under their thumb.

Assholes like this had left him in a burning building as a child, scared and hurting. It wasn’t the sort of thing you forgave easily.

“Would’ve been smarter if you did, but I didn’t really expect that from a pack of flea-bitten mongrels like you.”

The smile had given some of them pause, but the insult got them right back into it, too driven by their anger to see the threat in front of them. They moved in almost as one. He didn’t bother trying to dodge back out of the way. That wasn’t the point of tonight anyway. He _wanted_ them to land hits, he wanted to train his body to be able withstand even more.

Instead he moved forward, because he wasn’t just going to sit there and take it, either. His fist connected solidly with the first man’s gut, and he stumbled back. Faust wasn’t quick enough to get another before they started to strike him, but none of them seemed to be using weapons.

The scuffle quickly drew in a crowd from inside, forming a ring around the fight. One man was thrown out bodily by Faust, only to be shoved back in. No one was leaving until either Faust or all of the bikers he’d pissed off had fallen, that much was clear.

The fighting let him sink into a space where nothing mattered but beating the crap out of them. Even the pain was secondary, their fists not doing all that much in the first place to his body. 

Eventually a few of them did fall, and Faust stayed standing. He was battered, he had to admit, but it was more pain than bruises, more exhaustion than damage, that made him pant just as hard as the kine that were still standing. 

“What the fuck is wrong with this guy, Bull?”

The one that spoke was one who had so far been trying to subtly avoid the fight as much as possible, which was becoming less easy the longer it went on. The man was looking nervous, so Faust bit at his own lip, letting vitae cover his teeth as if he’d been bleeding from the beating. Then he bared them, giving a feral grin. The man flinched, and for a moment Faust felt like laughing. But instead he used the brief lull in the fighting to look over to ‘Bull,’ the leader. 

“Your momma teach you how to fight, _Bull_? I’ve gotten a better beating from a ten year old girl.”

The man in charge, who had been looking doubtful as well by now, gave a frustrated yell and charged forward again, planning on tackling him in a move that had probably gotten him his name.

Faust side-stepped it, grabbing the man’s arm in the process and yanking it behind him. He pushed, using the man’s momentum to get him in an armlock, baring his teeth again at the howl of pain as Bull’s arm came dangerously close to popping out of the socket.

“What the fuck are you _doing_ , Snake, _fucking help for once in your life_.”

The nervous man, ‘Snake,’ took a step forward, then stopped as he met Faust’s gaze, a stare of black threat. It was enough to send him running, pushing his way through a jeering crowd to disappear into the night. Good riddance.

“You gonna cry uncle or do I need to hurt you some more.”

“ **Fuck** you.”

Faust applied a little more pressure, it didn’t take much, and there was a crunch, then a scream of pain. Faust released him, giving a kick to his ass to send him tumbling to the ground, howling and clutching his arm.

With all of them down, the thrill of the fight was leaving him, and he looked down at the beaten men beneath him with a little distaste. He didn’t feel sorry for them, they’d probably done worse to people far less deserving, but he wasn’t exactly enjoying the sight, either.

The crowd parted to let him leave, though one man seemed impressed enough to offer him a drink. He cast a glare that shut him up quickly, putting his hands up and walking away, muttering under his breath as he left. Faust didn’t care enough to respond, he just kept walking.

He didn’t head straight home, instead making his way to another bar, one that was more pleasant, if still quiet, so that he could feed. He didn’t like drinking from people who were drunk, but sometimes it was just the easiest option, and he needed to heal before he went home.


	13. Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seattle, February 9th, 2000 at 4am. This story is about Charys and Asriel, both Malkavians. Mentions of Gladstone, who belongs to EffingEden
> 
> Content warnings include: vaguely implied murder, blood bonds

Charys had been silent most of the way back, only responding to questions with single syllables, often not even really words. That alone didn’t worry Asirel too much, he was used to his sire being like that. But they’d been gone for a few nights with no mention of where they were. Out hunting dangerous things.

But that was about all Asriel knew of the situation. Gladstone hadn’t been able to tell him what had taken so long, because he didn’t know either. It had been an untold relief when Charys had returned, on the doorstep of Gladstone’s haven. Intact, safe.

Gladstone had chided them for the disappearance, but they hadn’t really seemed to care. They’d taken it without complaint, thanked Gladstone for looking after Asriel, then left with him.

They were back at home now, Asriel still had some of the slime that the others had given him. But he wasn’t playing with it, yet. He was just curled up on the bed, watching his sire, who seemed simultaneously antsy and bored. That sort of mood usually meant they went out for a while, sometimes they even took Asriel with them. But tonight they were just pacing around. 

“What happened?”

Charys paused, turning their head to look at Asriel. There was something in their eyes that had always managed to make Asriel feel terrified and safe at the same time. The regard of a predator that had no interest in harming him.

“They’re dead.”

The cold, matter-of-factness of the statement made Asriel flinch a little, and something softened in Charys’ eyes. They went over to the bed, sitting next to him.

“Did you feed?”

Asriel shook his head slowly, averting his eyes. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Charys made a soft noise, though they were careful that it wasn’t one of frustration or disappointment. They didn’t - _couldn’t_ , really - understand Asriel’s aversion to drinking from the kine. They’d already explained that it didn’t hurt them if you were careful, that they _enjoyed_ it, even. Eventually they would have to push the matter, but not tonight.

“Are you hungry?”

Asriel nodded, just as slow, and Charys lifted a hand to their mouth, opening their wrist with their teeth and offering it. Asriel didn’t need all that much blood to keep him going, and Charys could hunt without issue. 

They remained silent as Asriel drunk what he needed. Charys watched their childe with unblinking eyes. They would have to do something about this entire situation, and soon. Hiding Asriel in this tiny little shit-hole could only be safe for so long. The idea that they would have to play nice to help secure Asriel’s safety was a thorn in their side.

But they would do it. For him.

This was probably the closest they had ever come to love.


End file.
